


Sent and Unsent Letters of Elgar'Inan "Snowbunny" Lavellan

by wixbloom



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: A Visit to the Dalish, And a lot of sketchbooks, Epistolary, F/M, Friendship, Identity Issues, Jaws of Hakkon, Jaws of Hakkon DLC, No Descent because I don't have that one haha, Post-Break Up, Post-Endgame, This starts about a month after the defeat of Corypheus and goes on until after Trespasser, Trespasser DLC
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-30
Updated: 2016-12-30
Packaged: 2018-09-13 12:25:56
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,987
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9123508
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wixbloom/pseuds/wixbloom
Summary: A collection of letters, notes and pictures kept locked tight in a laquered box under Inquisitor Elgar'Inan "Snowbunny" Lavellan's bed, in her quarters at Skyhold. Retrieved by agents of the Dread Wolf Fen’Harel, and delivered to his door.





	

_A collection of letters, notes and pictures kept locked tight in a laquered box under Inquisitor Elgar'Inan "Snowbunny" Lavellan's bed, in her quarters at Skyhold. Retrieved by agents of the Dread Wolf Fen’Harel, and delivered to his door._

* * * * * *

Vhenan,

 

You always hated the nickname Snowbunny. Why couldn’t people be bothered to use the elvhen name my parents had so lovingly given me, Elgar’Inan, spirit-eyes? For all your reservations about the Dalish, it was still a mark of belonging to the People and of a kind of… specialness. When you asked me about whether the mark had changed me due to contact with the Fade, I told you my family had named me like this because they thought my albinism was caused by me being Fade-touched. I didn’t expect you of all people to ask me something so similar. I have a skin condition and now a weird glowy hand, I told you, laughing. I’m not even a mage!

By comparison, Varric was very perceptive, I think, when he first called me Snowbunny. Oh, sure, it’s a fantasy too (and a dangerous one: Varric couldn’t stop apologizing to me once we reached Orlais and found out they regularly call elves “rabbit” as a slur), but it felt fitting, as a part of me. And actually, it’s more and more a part of me each day. My clan is stronger than ever, but I’m slipping away from being Elgar’Inan Lavellan who pouted and stomped her feet at not being sent away with the hunters, who trained in secret, who believed herself to be among the last of the Elvhen. I feel much more like a bunny, charming strangers and leaping into action and fading, near-invisibly, against a backdrop of white on white.

And yet, I fiercely defended my people from every slight you directed at them when we met, and I held on to my vallaslin when you offered to take them from me. They were my body, my heritage, and the achievement I fought so hard for. Did I ever tell you I cried four times before I was finally able to withstand the pain of tattooing? By that time, the hahren, the keeper and my parents were all certain that I was just too fragile to become an adult. How could I have exposed my bare face again with anything but shame, after how hard I had to prove myself to be able to sport the markings of Andruil on my face? Vera’solas ma, ma vhenan, you would have stolen all my pride from me.

Last night, I dreamt I was the rabbit in the snow, and the wolves were after me and I couldn't fade away, Solas, because I hadn't let you take the vallaslin. The markings stood out against the whiteness of the desolate winter, purple and bright, reflecting my eyes and shining with purpose.

I have wondered, in the past, if I was too much Snowbunny, one among many people from all backgrounds, acting with them, caring for them, not special enough, not fade-touched enough and so very small and so removed from any dream of Elvhen glory, and if that was why you left. And I have wondered, as well, if I was too much Elgar'Inan, too much a wild thing eager for the hunt, defending my heritage and my markings with all my teeth and claws and arrows, and if that was why you left.

You told me that being called Snowbunny was an insult, and you told me that carrying the vallaslin was cruel. But all these things are a part of me, for you to deal with as well as me. And one memorable time, love, you told me that I was perfect exactly as I was. I can’t reconcile these truths, I can’t reconcile myself with myself. I’ve never been so uncertain of who I was, so weak. I write to you now in this moment of weakness. I can tell you that no insult and no cruelty have hurt as much as your goodbye. Even now it's a slap to the face - what could I have done different? In which way, among so many I can conjure up when I lie awake at night, did I fail to be what you wanted? Where do I even belong now?

Talk to me.

With love, still,

Elgar'Inan Snowbunny Lavellan

(suck it, hahren, the name stays)

  * * * * * *

  _A mauve envelope, containing several small ink-and-wash drawings made on what, upon closer inspection, appear to be the backs of official reports. The drawings are as follows:_

 

A sprig of lavender. Below, in simple handwriting, "Crestwood in bloom - after the rain"

A study of a single flowering Crystal Grace from 3 different angles, captioned "no Orlesian jeweled trinket compares"

Two large, pale, bruised hands holding pink blossoms, captioned "Compassion"

A lovingly detailed close-up of a Crystal Grace flower

An archway with two Elvhen-looking statues, surrounded by greenery. There are yellow flowers added to the greenery in ink.

An Embrium flower, labelled "salubrious, sure, but tastes horrible"

A still-life composition: on a meadow, propped against a rock, are a bow, a quiver containing a few arrows and a staff. On the ground next to them are a backpack, a pair of heeled boots and what appears to be a wolfskin. The bow and staff are joined together by a colorful chain of flowers.

  * * * * * *

 Solas,

 

Leaving me like you did was such a low blow that I’m not sure I’m sad or just relieved that you finally decided to just disappear on me. I hate you for your cowardice in not talking to me, never answering my questions, leaving me to lick my wounded pride alone. Ah, yes, my wounded pride. Every time my anger and my sadness were met by your cold, bland sympathies, I felt like a silly thing scrambling to prove her maturity and to earn your approval.

I’m relieved you’re gone, truly. Every time I looked at you I wished you’d scream, cry, just do _something_ so I didn’t feel so utterly abandoned - something that proved to me that under your icy politeness you still loved me.

Do you? Did you ever?

Was I the only one who ever had a heart among the two of us? Or am I angry just because I really am too much of a child, not wise enough, not soft enough to understand you better, to be kinder, to be as quiet and polite and immoveable as you’ve been for the past month?

_On the bottom half of the page, a later addition:_

Drank at the tavern. Still tipsy, the scandal! Varric let me win Wicked Grace, I could tell. Doesn’t matter, still got everyone’s gold as well as a pretty new scarf courtesy of Cassandra’s abysmal lack of skill with bluffing. You should see me wear it, I look so regal. I can flip it dramatically in conversation to accentuate the power of my words.

After the game, Cole told me that I think of everything I don’t get as an issue of me lacking something, of failing to prove my worth. He braided my hair while I cried, which should have been awkward because everyone else was _still_ at the table. But they all either kept drinking their ale like nothing had happened or gave me awkward little pats on the back and hand squeezes and tentative smiles, and strangely, all I could think right then was that you’re missing out, all alone.

Come back to me.

Snowbunny.

* * * * * *

_Another envelope, containing the following drawings:_

 

The figure of a white rabbit, on its hind legs, carrying a bow and arrow and wearing a simplified version of Elgar'Inan's armor, minus the trousers and boots. The bunny wears a purple flower crown and carries the Andruil vallaslin in lilac.

In another piece of paper, taller but clearly on the same scale, the figure of a grey wolf, also standing on its hind legs, wearing simple robes of plain, rough cloths and carrying a backpack and staff.

The wolf and rabbit of the former images, sitting together by a stream, eating red and golden apples which hang above them from the branches of a tree

The same rabbit in the snow, alone, clutching a wolf pelt.

* * * * * *

 Orion,

Please find enclosed a few gifts for the clan, as well as a custom-made staff, enchanted by our Arcanist. It has, apparently, the power to summon swarms of bees to attack enemies? Don't ask me. Anyway, it's also got a nice orange crystal at the tip, and a blade, which I'm sure you can appreciate. My gift to you to congratulate you for becoming our new Keeper. It's a bittersweet accomplisment, but what hope remais if we don’t learn find joy in those too?

I'm so sorry for not keeping in contact more. To be fair, I _was_ quite busy punching a millenia-old darkspawn magister in the jaw, but really, that's no excuse to neglect a friend. My job of restoring order isn't done yet, but since I seem to have postponed the end of the world, I think I deserve a break, don't you? Would you welcome this prodigal child back home for a few months? I swear I will bring more extravagant bribes, and my hunting arm is stronger than ever. I miss you all so much.

May the Dread Wolf never catch your scent.

Elgar'Inan.

 * * * * * *

Thel,

Leaving now with so much pomp and circumstance. Feels weird. I come bearing spices, honey, cloths, pelts and felandaris, a weird hand that’s been glowing a bit more than I’d like, but above all, a heart filled with the longing to see you all again. It’s been too long.

Expect me in two weeks. If I take more than four, contact Skyhold, I’ll probably have managed to get myself in trouble again.

Elgar’Inan

 * * * * * *

  _A series of drawings in a fat saffron-colored envelope:_

 

A sunset landscape painted with runny, watery inks in bright colors, labeled “Somewhere along the King’s Road”

Seven miniature paintings of other roadside scenes.

Two pages containing a series of quick, messy graphite portraits of several elves of all ages, genders and sizes, all carrying vallaslin. At the bottom right corner of the second page is a pregnant elven woman. On top of her belly there is a tiny question mark.

A page of quick sketches of Orion and Thel from various angles, each portrait labelled with the name of one of the brothers.

A gouache painting of a Dalish camp, labelled “home”.

 * * * * * *

 My love,

I wish

 * * * * * *

Solas,

I

* * * * * *

Ma Vhenan,

The camp feels almost like it hasn’t changed at all. It has, of course - craftsmaster Adahl, who was pregnant when I left, now has two small children, and my friend Orion has taken over Keeper duties with the death of Keeper Istimaethoriel. But life here seems timeless, somehow, and very slow. There’s a familiar rhythm to everyone’s movements, a music I don’t think I ever appreciated before being away from it.

I knew I’d be a bit of an oddity when I returned, but they’ve been welcoming of me, and very warm. Everyone was terribly curious to see the Anchor, of course, and even more when I told them it was our people’s magic that did it. Pretty much every member of the clan has held my hand and inspected it since I arrived. And, yet again, they thought it was odd that I wanted to go hunting. I’m glad I insisted, because I found out that 3 clan youths reached hunter status since I left and, even though they’re all about my age, they’ve developed a big hero-crush on me! I couldn’t help showing off a bit, of course, and logically I made a fool of myself and startled a deer I was trying to hit. Luckily, they were all able to laugh my ridiculous display off, and we grew a bit closer for it.

Every night, they’re gathering in a circle by the fireside and having me retell all the events of the past two years in salacious detail. I keep it fun and entertaining and leave off the fear, the self-doubt, trudging through the snow after the wreck of Haven, the sleepless anxious nights without you in the days leading up to the death of Corypheus. In the stories I tell, I give them the elven hero they want and deserve.

Orion and Thel are my dearest friends for several reasons, and one of them is that they see right through my cheerfulness and bluster. Oh, they laugh and clap along with everyone else as I tell my stories, but after that they visit me in my tent and make me fragrant red tea and let me tell all my secrets and spill all my tears. I [several scratched passages follow] have been needing their company a lot.

It’s been feeling like a grand luxury, staying here in the middle of nowhere with the People, living so quietly and with so much time - breathe, to think, to create, to wander about, to rest, and even to mourn your loss. But with so much time, it’s easy to be taken over by mi'nas'sal'in, the knife of solitude and longing.

I wish I could touch your face again. I wish you were here.

Elgar’Inan Snowbunny

* * * * * *

A graphite drawing of two elven children, both appearing to be around 2 years old and bearing a striking resemblance to each other, playing with wooden halla figurines atop a sheepskin rug, captioned “Adahl’s - Aster and Laeta”

An ink and wash drawing of two brown-skinned, dark-haired, greying elves who despite their difference of coloration still bear a striking resemblance to Snowbunny. Below the picture, “Mamae doesn’t recognize me anymore, half the time. Babe does, but seems unsure how to talk to me. They’re still both very kind, if awkward.”

Two pages of studies of Orion Lavellan - laughing, frowning, asleep, looking into the distance. The level of detail and realism in these is superior to the previous ones, suggesting they were drawn from life rather than memory. In these pictures, Orion has more pronounced lines around his mouth and eyes, and his hair is loose or tied back in simple ponytails, rather than elaborately braided.

Two pages of studies of Thel Lavellan, with subtly varying expressions. Many are close-ups of his hands in various gestures, all very expressive. Again, these suggest direct observation. Thel in these pictures has much shorter hair than in Snowbunny’s previous sketches.

An ink and wash picture of a meal served atop a richly colored woven cloth: unleavened bread spread with honey, several cups of milk, a platter of berries, a pitcher of water and a package of cookies tied with a ribbon.

A portrait of Snowbunny’s left hand, in graphite, with a splotch of runny green ink starting from the center and dripping down to the edges of the page.

A second painting of the Dalish camp, this time at night.

An ink and wash picture showing two embroidered tunics, a pair of leather trousers, a crystal amulet, two large wire hairpins shaped like flowers and a carved wooden bunny. Captioned “goodbye gifts - more precious than gold”.

 * * * * * *

Ma vhenan,

It strikes me now and again how little I actually learned about you in the time we had together. Ma nulam, lath, I’ll probably never get to ask you, will I? How could I have felt so close to you while knowing so little of your life? I knew your love of books and painting and your affinity for dreams and spirits, but I never learned much more than anyone else about what you thought, how you felt - and the little I thought I’d learned, I now doubt I did. The closeness I felt for you seems like one of those feelings we get in a dream and whose origin we forget when we wake. I know I feel like I know you better than anyone does and that I feel closer to you than to anyone else, but I have no idea, anymore, what made me feel this way.

All this is a roundabout way to say that when I tell stories of us - which I’ve been doing a lot, confiding in Orion and Thel as I do - they always have an emptiness to them, in retrospect - a void that comes from wondering what you were actually thinking, feeling, as we painted together or as I slept in your arms or as I took your hand in Halamshiral and you danced with me on the palace built over the ruins of our ancestors.

You told me I saw more of you than most, and that thought leaves me cold. I feel I have nothing of you to hold on to anymore, now that you’re gone. What was I doing, focusing on Corypheus and Venatori and the end of the world, when you were still beside me, warm and real and close enough to touch? Why was I such a fool to save an empress and salvage a rebellion and kill a God when what I should have done was to hold you?

I’m so sorry.

Elgar’Inan.

* * * * * *

_A single, simple and rough graphite sketch. Two forms embrace. Their lines are sinuous enough that they blend into each other around the waist. Snowbunny has carefully folded this picture in 4 and saved it along with her other, significantly more refined work._

* * * * * *

_A quick note, in carefully drawn but still shaky script._

 

Telana,

Thank you for talking to me. Thank you for your service to the Inquisition, old and present. Your love and your sacrifice will not be forgotten. Ir abelas, lethalin. Dareth shiral.

 * * * * * *

Three separate, careful graphite studies of a cluster of flowers in the middle of a broken down wooden shack.

A bigger, finished ink-and-wash drawing of the same scene. Each flower and plank of wood is lovingly, carefully rendered. The scene is tinted with the red and purple tones of dusk. Beneath it, in careful writing: "Nothing Is Inevitable"

* * * * * *

Solas,

Telana.

Had you ever encountered mentions of her name in the Fade? She was the elven love of Inquisitor Ameridan, on whose elusive trail we are. This morning, I released the remains of her spirit from where it still dwelled - in a small, broken shack beaten by wind and rain and snow. She was a Dreamer who slipped away into the Fade and died in her sleep looking for her dead love. Flowers were blooming from the remains of her corpse when I found her, Solas, 800 years of death with nothing but rotting planks of wood and flowers to show for it - and Telana never did see her love again.

Whenever I try to sleep I can't stop seeing those flowers wrapped around bone. The vision haunts me more than any we've seen in our adventures. I think of the Nightmare at Adamant and of my gravestone there. Back then, my biggest fear was being a child - truly being too weak and incompetent to live freely and to lead others. I knew that this fear was the root of so many others I had during our fight against Corypheus and his minions: that I would be too foolish, too incompetent, and it would doom us all.

Those big fears were, in a way, simple to deal with. I would succeed, or I would not. But now that I am no longer the child Elgar'Inan who chased after rams and deer in the woods, now that I am no longer the Inquisitor sworn to vanquish Corypheus, now that I am [several starts and scribbles, almost a whole line] now that I am no longer the Vhenan that you seemed to love so purely, I’ve been developing another, more crippling kind of fear. It keeps me from sleep and it paralyzes me during the day, and more than once in the past few months it’s sent me into a panic: the fear of sleeping my life away, irrelevant, pining for a love I will never see again.

I don’t want that fate. I’m tired of writing to you letters that I don't even send. I’m tired of waiting for you. I can feel my skin rotting away to fertilize flowers when I close my eyes.

I deserve more than to fade away on your account.

Elgar’Inan Snowbunny Lavellan.

* * * * * *

It’s been more than hinted in these but let me spell it out for you so hopefully it gets through your thick egg skull: I CAN’T SLEEP RIGHT EVER SINCE YOU LEFT ME. Whenever I try I either tie myself up into knots, overthinking everything, my gestures and my attitudes towards you and my solitude itself, or I straight up panic. Whenever I do pass out, my dreams have been horrible. So many demons take on your form to promise me either your undying love or the chance to exact gruesome revenge upon you. Don’t flatter yourself, though, you’re not all that’s horrific in my dreams. You share that spot with Corypheus, the Nightmare, the cold walk from the wreckage of Haven back to the safety of the camp, the Fifth Blight, and the hunters in the clan laughing at me as they force me to wear ridiculous hats. I’ve been leaving candles on at night to try to help me sleep, and you can BET one time I managed to set fire to my bed curtains. There’s guards outside my door now, Solas, and they had to be taught to ignore anything that wasn’t specifically a call for help, because they have, in the past, BARGED INTO MY ROOM only to catch me valiantly CLUTCHING AT MY BEDCLOTHES AND CRYING.

Did you EVER think about that? About what would happen to me afterward? About how you left me the most alone I ever thought I could be to face down an unimaginable horror, to deal with all this fear without you? You selfish [the words simply wander off here. at the bottom of the page is a tear, like Snowbunny considered ripping this letter in half and thought better halfway through. Like all others in the chest, it is neatly folded]

* * * * * *

A large painting on paper, in watercolor and colored inks. The figure of Snowbunny is sitting in a field at night, silhouetted in black against a blue-and-purple sky lit by a million brilliant white-dotted stars. From the figure’s left hand comes a splotch of green. In the foreground are purple wildflowers. On the back of the paper, in much more flowery handriting than Snowbunny’s usual: “unlikely beauty”

* * * * * *

Solas,

 

I am now Snowbunny First-Thaw! A name given to me by the Avaar after I, shock of shocks, killed another dragon. I like this, one more piece in the puzzle of who I am: a pastiche of names and titles given to me by different peoples of different lands, whose eyes are older than she is, one whose skin and hair promises snow but whose actions also bring warmth and flowers. Sounds dashing, doesn’t it? Oh yes, also: I am now kin to the Avaar. How cool is that?

Today, for some reason, I miss you terribly. I'm trying not to get melancholy about it. The happy memories of our time together don't deserve the sadness that I keep piling up on them in hindsight. Today they're a little more on the sweet side of bittersweet. Like the time after Halamshiral when we decided to test out the paints and pigments I’d gotten in Val Royeaux, and halfway through the evening I accidentally got yellow paint on your tunic and you retaliated by getting your dirty pawprints on my nightgown - bright blue hands, right in the butt! And you refused to let me borrow your cloak on the way back to my room!

Were you ever really as carefree as you sometimes seemed to me in those days?

I like to think that, whatever else you might have hidden from me, you were honest in the lightness of those moments, and I like to think I contributed to that, that I truly could lift the weight you so often seemed to carry, and make you less weary, less guarded, more at home for a while. That in our adventures with painting, our strolls in the garden, our conversations about dreams and stories, our stolen time in each other’s tents and rooms during stays in palaces or excursions to remote backwaters of Thedas, we were both truly happy, and free.

Did you keep the little paintings and knick-knacks I gave you? I hope you did. For the sake of my pride, at least, I’d hate for them to have been thrown out somewhere. Obviously, I kept the paintings you dedicated to _me._ Those are a bit harder to misplace, after all, seeing as I’m not about to tear down the walls of Skyhold any time soon. I won’t pretend I don’t sometimes wish I _could_ misplace them, though. I look at your unfinished mural all the time, and it can be melancholy to think of how I will never see it complete.

Or rather, I hope I will.

Against hope, vhenan, here is the secret of these unsent letters: I hope, one day, that whatever took you away from me will pull you back. On that day, we can embrace and read these sad little lumps of words together, and laugh at one another, a carefree laugh at the foolishness of this separation.

You remain, of course, in my thoughts

Elgar’Inan Snowbunny

* * * * * *

A sketchy gouache portrait of Varric holding a hand of cards by candlelight, in a wooden shack. From a window, the night sky outside is visible.

A graphite portrait of Cassandra. Her eyes are hard but there’s a subtle smile of amusement playing at her lips.

An ink and wash drawing of Iron Bull, sitting in a comically tiny chair, holding a disgruntled and blushing Dorian on his lap and moving to kiss him on the cheek. Lots of red hearts surround them.

A graphite portrait of Scout Harding, smiling widely. The lines are quick and rough, but lots of attention has been paid to her freckles.

An ink-and-wash drawing of a mug of tea. From it springs an elfroot, haloed in golden ink. Beneath it, “my feelings for elfroot tea are good and pure”.

* * * * * *

Solas,

Now that the business with the Avvar is finished, Cassandra’s run out of excuses to delay going to Val Royeaux for good to take on her duties. I thought it would break my heart enough to tell her goodbye, but on top of that, Varric told me last night that he’s leaving too, to tackle Kirkwall’s reconstruction efforts from up close. Dorian hasn’t said anything, but I remember the conversations we had before Corypheus was defeated, and I can see the worried looks he’s been giving me and Bull when he thinks we aren’t looking. Bull gives me looks too, even though we both know the Charger’s work for the Inquisition is far from done, seeing as there are still major rifts out there that need closing.

I can’t hide how hard it is to know that eventually we’ll all say goodbye, and because of that, now everyone gives me careful looks and pats my back awkwardly and smiles at me for a little too long and thinks they need to look out for me.

I fear they’re right, and I don’t like it.

Snowbunny.

* * * * * *

 _A thick, tiny sketchbook, made with sturdy watercolor paper and bound in cloth. It’s filled with portraits of various members of the Inquisition, some more widely known, others less; as well as double-page landscapes of sceneries from accross Ferelden, Orlais and the Free Marches. There are also self-portraits of Snowbunny Lavellan, as well as more carefree sketches and studies for her future paintings. It’s dated_ Wintermarch 9:43 Dragon - Harvestmere 9:44 Dragon

* * * * * *

To Dorian Pavus,

Greetings from cold, snowy, cold, cold Skyhold! I hope you have a wonderful Satinalia, and that this letter gets to you before that. Varric and Cassandra arrived here yesterday, by surprise, and announced they’re staying over for 2 weeks so we can all celebrate the holiday together. What’s more, an hour after _their_ arrival, my friends Orion and Thel showed up at the gate! They hadn’t seen Skyhold yet, so I got to give them a walking tour, it was so exciting. I caught Leliana stifling a giggle from the rookery as I showed them the library, so of course I went to confront her and she confessed she orchestrated the whole thing! Says she also invited you, but you’re super busy with complicated Tevinter politics and won’t be able to show up. A certain horned mercenary was very discreetly hinted to be headed northward for mysterious and, I’m sure, completely unrelated reasons, and that makes me think that the holidays will be fun for both of us, in different ways.

Your friend,

Inquisitor Snowbunny Lavellan

 

_Below this letter, in different ink, Snowbunny has added “I never got to send this one because the drama queen made a SURPRISE ENTRANCE the day after I wrote it! And THEY ALL KNEW!!! I would have been upset that they all tricked me, if I hadn’t been crying big tears and hugging them all. Andruil be damned, I missed them, I missed them so much.”_

* * * * * *

Solas,

It’s been a long time since you heard from me. Alright, you’ve… never heard of me, actually, seeing as I never actually sent you a letter. I swear sometimes I forget that I’ve been as silent to you as you’ve been to me. Do you have a pathetic stash of unsent letters of your own? Do they run, like mine do, through all sorts of feelings of guilt, shame, anger, longing, and the ache of loss? Do you curse me in them, I wonder? Do you say sweet, loving words, as I do here every now and then? I’m probably being an idiot. For all I know, you haven’t spared a single thought to me during all the time.

Anyway, the Inquisition is probably ending soon. At which point we can add “Inquisitor” to a list of things I am no longer sure I am.

I still can’t sleep, by the way

Solas,

It’s been over t

 

Solas,

I’m starting to realize I still had fantasies that you were going to show up here with all of us. You would hear about the Inquisition being in peril, and you would show up, like everyone else has, to support it. To support _me_ , to be honest.

How stupid is that?

Halamshiral is the same as always: a stuffy, treacherous insult that I’m forced to smile at and pretend I find delightful. I’ve barely arrived and already they’re sending assassins. At least the harlequin that tried to take me out last night gave me the chance to release some pent-up frustration! Even though my bow arm

 

Vhenam

My arm is

 

Vhenam

I am [angrily scribbled out, so much so that the paper is torn in places]

I am NOT going to die!

 

Solas,

I know it’s you.

Don’t think, after all we’ve been through, that I am not capable of killing you.

Go take yourself.

* * * * * *

_Carbon copies of a series of quick, urgent notes:_

 

Leliana,

Thanks for having your people look after me these past few days, and thank you so much for postponing the meetings. I’m feeling better, which doesn’t mean good, but means “as ready to get out of bed as I think I’m gonna be”. I know it’s an inconvenient time, but could you ask the kitchen personnel to get me some soup, bread, maybe some boiled vegetables? Bribe them if you need to, I’m starving. Moping, it turns out, is hungry work.

Also, here is my last official order as the Inquisitor: get some sleep, and tell everyone else to do so too. I won’t feel any better if you worry yourself sick about me.

Inquisitor Lavellan

(for now)

 

Josephine,

Skyhold is mine. It belonged to the ancient elves and had been abandoned, and I have claimed it for myself. It was also a gift from my horrible murderous egg boyfriend. I don't care what else you compromise on with the nobles - less staffing, turn half of it into a charity institution that bored Orlesian widows can throw money at, take in war orphans until it's almost overrun (wait, that's actually a good idea! who knew I still had those) but Skyhold remains with me.

Send them my goddamn arm in a fruit basket with the two fingers pointing up. They will not take Skyhold from me.

Her Former Grand Inquisitorialness Snowbunny Elgar’Inan Lavellan.

 

Varric,

Spread word, we’re having drinks and playing cards tonight after this shit meeting, I can’t stand moping around another second.

Snowbunny.

 

Orion,

I will be leaving Orlais in five days' time, and should reach Ferelden sometime next week. I would like to meet with you and the clan as fast as possible. Would it be possible for you to collect me at the border? If not, I ask that you head to Skyhold. They've been instructed to welcome you.

Whichever route you take, send me your fastest bird with your answer. Travel swiftly and safely and may the Dread Wolf never catch your scent.

Elgar'Inan.

 

Thel,

Be wary of travellers on your way to me. The roads are dangerous this time of year and even among our own people there are bandits. Keep the clan close, and safe. I love you all.

 

Sera,

You know something about stitching, right? I’m a complete failure at that and I need “I took the Dread Wolf” embroidered across my jacket. Urgent Inquisition needs, don’t ask.

Snowbunny.

* * * * * *

_A letter bearing the wax seal of the Dread Wolf, tied by a long ribbon to two wooden boxes, delivered to Skyhold by an elven mage who turned into a bird before we could apprehend her. One of the boxes has been confirmed by former Inquisitor Snowbunny to be hers, and its contents were revealed upon inspection to be intact and unadulterated. The second box was thoroughly checked for magical and non-magical traps, and, once it was determined to be safe, Snowbunny declared the documents within it to be for her eyes only._

 

Ma Vhenan,

Accept this back, with my deep condolences. One of my spies got it into their head that they would get the Dread Wolf’s praise if they relieved you of your personal documents, against direct orders. [striked out, illegible]

I wish I could tell you that restraint and force of will stayed me from reading, but, as I think we both know, I am a fool. Even more a fool than I thought, it seems. I did not realize that I had ever given you cause to doubt your worth, your importance, or your identity. I fear that in my stupidity and pride I hurt you much worse than I thought I had. In my self-absorption, didn’t realize how much the name Snowbunny, or even your vallaslin, meant to you. When I said that you were perfect as you were, that was a truth it took me too long to recognize and one which you deserved to have me tell you every day.

You have lost much, my love, but I am pleased to see that your indomitable will, your courage and your spirit have not diminished. Nor has the love that your friends and your clan bear for you - or, for whatever little it’s worth, the love I bear. And your drawings are getting more expressive and vivid.

I would not do you the added injury of asking for your forgiveness. Instead, I’m sending you something far more practical: you asked if I had a similar stack of unsent letters and other tidbits, and the answer is yes. I send you the box, unopened, for you to do as you will with it.

[striked out, illegible]

Solas.

**Author's Note:**

> Since this is the first piece of fanfic I ever publish, I should thank  MercurialMalcontent  for their encouragement! If they hadn't told me to write this I probably would have left it unfinished forever.
> 
> The Elvhen Project  was also a huge help in expanding my elvhen lexicon.


End file.
